


Domesticity (How I Hate The Domestic)

by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autism, Autism Spectrum, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, M/M, Multi, Neurodiversity, Other, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea
Summary: Crowley is a demon.This is an irrefutable fact—it’s like, oh, the sun’s presence, warming the bottoms of your feet, or the inability of your mother figuring out the internet (“How do I get to my e-mail?” “Mom, please.”) It is coded into his very DNA—his Demonic Nature Acumen—to be just that: demonic, wily, snake-ish.Which is why, when a certain angel attempts to steer him toward the ineffable light, he sets his feet in the dirt, grits his teeth, screws his mouth up into a scowl, and gives an almighty (no, not Almighty) yank in the other direction.





	Domesticity (How I Hate The Domestic)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fowl Fiend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031850) by [reflectionsofalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reflectionsofalex/pseuds/reflectionsofalex). 

> This is my Good Omens longfic for NanoWrimo!!! Exciting times ahead.

Crowley is a demon. 

This is an irrefutable fact—it’s like, oh, the sun’s presence, warming the bottoms of your feet, or the inability of your mother figuring out the internet (“How do I get to my e-mail?” “Mom, please.”) It is coded into his very DNA—his Demonic Nature Acumen—to be just that: demonic, wily, snake-ish. 

Which is why, when a certain angel attempts to steer him toward the ineffable light, he sets his feet in the dirt, grits his teeth, screws his mouth up into a scowl, and gives an almighty (no, not Almighty) yank in the other direction. 

So Aziraphale, being the enterprising and kind angel that he is, has all but let go of the idea of turning Crowley to the lighter side. It’s just not worth the fighting. 

But now that Good and Evil have… well, not been negated, but most definitely muddled in their definitions, and the Head Offices quite largely thwarted, it appears that Crowley is bored.

And a bored Crowley often results in the destruction of property, be it personal or otherwise, bodily harm, and/or (but most likely and) emotional harm to all parties involved.

Yikes.

Quite frankly, Aziraphale is surprised Crowley hasn’t burned the bookshop down yet (ooh, poor choice of words… best not bring that up to his demon) in his boredom. As it is, he’s pacing back and forth from the bookshop to the flat above that they share and back again. And again. 

And again. 

He tromps down the stairs in his boots—he used to go barefoot in the flat, but not when he’s pacing, as his pattering footsteps simply aren’t as dramatique as the clomping of his boots—and begins his circuit. 

Round to the indoor nursery he’d cultivated, check on the plants, sneer at the one that’s drooping despite his best efforts to scare the living chlorophyll out of it, back away from said plant without breaking eye contact, into the bookshop itself. From there, his journey takes him through the stacks, past Aziraphale, past the classics, past the secret, guilty treasure trove of modern books Zira thinks he’s successfully hidden from the demon’s knowledge (Celeste Ng, angel? Really?), past the cup of tea that’s been there for approximately a week (he swears the angel is performing experiments on the making of homemade kombucha, but it’s more likely that his scatterbrain of a husband has simply forgotten it), and up onto the ladders. 

He surveys the books with a critical eye, stroking the softened spine of one in particular (Waterfowl of England, one of the only books in the whole shop that he himself owns), and retraces his steps.

Back past the tea (it reeks, he really ought to tell Aziraphale), over to the hidden stack (he snags Little Fires Everywhere, because eh, what the hell), past the classics, past an amused-yet-worried Aziraphale, and—

—A pale hand reaches out to grab his wrist, halting his progress. 

Crowley slowly, s-lo-w-ly turns to face the angel, a scowl on his face. “Yes, my lovely husband?” He likes the way he can turn “husband” into a curse word and still have Aziraphale’s cheeks pink up at the mention of their marriage, but despite his blush, Aziraphale is trying very hard, it seems, to be intimidating. 

Imagine a puffed-up snowball of a kitten hissing and spitting its complaints, and you’ll understand what Crowley means when he says it’s fucking adorable.

“Do take a seat,” he tells the demon, letting Crowley’s spindly wrist go and folding his arms. He manages to keep a straight face when Crowley chooses, of all places, to fold himself up on Aziraphale’s lap with a smug look. 

“You never specified where to sit…” Crowley explains, eyes alight with mischief, and Aziraphale lets out a fond sigh. 

“This is as good a place as any, I suppose,” he tells Crowley, voice mock-stern, and the demon can’t help but grin. He sobers, though, when he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face. It’s that didactic, “I’m going to treat you to a lecture” look, and though it is one Crowley is incredibly familiar with, that’s not to say he enjoys encountering it.

“So, dearest Crowley. You’ve been a bit, erm. Jittery, lately,” Aziraphale begins. 

Crowley’s eyes flash. “Jittery? Demons aren’t jittery, angel.” 

“Well, fidgety, then?” Aziraphale asks with a huff. “Whatever descriptor you’d like to land upon, then, have at it. But really, Crowley, you’ve been pacing like a lion in too small of a cage.”

“Thank you.”

“What?” Aziraphale pauses, perplexed. 

“I like lions. I like the comparison,” Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“You can’t squirm away from the topic at hand.”

“Are you saying ‘squirm’ because I’m a snake?”

“Crowley.”

“I thought I was a lion.”

Aziraphale leans back with a sigh. He casts his eyes skyward with a short plea for strength. 

“So, you’ve been very fidgety and rather… well. Indolent.” Aziraphale says the word with a bit of apology in his tone. 

“You’re calling me fidgety and lazy? Now you’re just being paradoxical, angel. You’re not making sense, are you ill?” He lays a hand on Aziarphale’s brow mockingly, and Aziraphale shoves his hand away irritably. 

“What I’m trying to say is, Crowley, is that you need something to keep yourself occupied. You cannot just wander round the flat like this, you’re—“

“—a snake chasing its own tail,” Crowley sighs. “I know.” The angel hugs his demon closer, hiding his frown in that scarlet hair. 

All is quiet for a long moment, then: “I’m just antsy, I guess.” A soft laugh. “Hastur used to say that when I said I was bored, the whole of Hell would collapse. I told him to fuck off and he punched me in the teeth. That was a good day.”

Aziraphale nods, nose still buried in Crowley’s hair. He rubs his lips against his scalp, stimming a little, and Crowley gives a relaxed sort of huff before melting into Aziraphale’s grasp. “What can I do for you, dear? I want you to be comfortable here like I am.”

“That’s the thing,” Crowley tells him, drawing away a little (ignoring the little noise Aziraphale makes at the loss of his lips on Crowley’s hair). “I can’t be comfortable like you are. You like staying in one place, putting down roots, but I don’t. I’m scared, Zira… I go to fast for you, you said it yourself.” 

Aziraphale winces, taking Crowley’s hands in his. “Crow, you know how hard words are for me… I was overwhelmed, I needed some time to collect myself. I think what we need here is a good, old-fashioned compromise.” Crowley lifted his head, intrigued. 

“Go on.”

Zira lifted his fingers to chew on them a bit, something he did when adjusting himself to a situation; Crowley snagged his hands and held them gently, miracle-ing up Aziraphale’s chewy (an ivory pendant shaped like a feather) and popping it into his angel’s mouth. Aziraphale gives him a grateful glance, looking to Crowley’s nose bridge, just skirting away from his gaze. Crowley doesn’t mind—Aziraphale’s neurology is lovely to him, and he wants to make sure his husband is comfortable.

“Well, perhaps we can deviate from the routine a bit,” the angel suggested, voice a bit muffled as he sucks on the pendant. “I just ask that we take it slow at first.”

“Of course,” Crowley nodded. He paused, not to lend weight to his words but to measure them carefully. What he wanted to say was, “I know this is hard for you. I really, really appreciate it, angel.” What came out was, “I love you.”

The angel pinked up instantly, a blush working its way to the tips of his ears. 

"I love you too, my dear," he replied, smiling, and that seemed to be that.


End file.
